by Martha Keyes
Finmore’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “I promise to return her to her father directly after visiting the ice sculpture—I have a matter I wish to speak with him about, in fact. But we shall let the lady decide, of course.” He looked to Miss Devenish with an attitude of patient confidence, and Philip suppressed the desire to throw a glass of lemonade in his friend’s face. Finmore was proving his earlier argument, and Philip well knew it.
Miss Devenish glanced up at Philip, a hint of apology in her eyes. “I confess I have been wishing to try an ice, and I can only imagine how much I shall like it flavored with lemon. But of course, I shouldn’t wish to abandon you, Lord Oxley.”
He was fairly certain that abandoning him was precisely what she wished to do.
He managed a small chuckle. “Not at all. I cannot speak for the lemon flavor of ice, but the parmesan is very enjoyable. I imagine Finmore intends to ensure you a taste of both—he is always so very giving of himself—so I shall leave you in his capable hands.”
Miss Devenish’s mouth broke into a smile, and she handed her glass of lemonade back to Philip before taking the arm proffered by Finmore, dipping into a curtsy, and thanking Philip.
“Oh, and Oxley,” Finmore said, guiding Miss Devenish away from the refreshments. “You might take a look at the ice sculpture when you have a chance. I imagine you will enjoy it. It is carved in the shape of two swans.” And with that Parthian shot, Finmore escorted his stolen charge gracefully through the ballroom, not even sparing a backward glance for Philip, who stood with two glasses of untouched lemonade in his hands.
Chapter Two
Philip pressed the seal stamp onto the hot wax of the letter sitting on his desk. He set the letter on the pile of those already sealed and stamped, straightening them so that the edges all lined up.
The library in his London townhouse was but a fraction of the size of the one at Oxley Court. It housed a respectable number of books, but it fell far short of the towering shelves of his country estate’s grand library—the accumulation of centuries-worth of books, acquired by the five Viscounts Oxley who had come before him.
He glanced up, grateful that here, at least, he didn’t have to gaze at the looming portrait of his mother on the wall. The painting was every bit as large and imposing as the room that housed it, and the artist had managed to capture the similarly grand presence of the subject—her clear, perceptive gaze, her regal posture, as though she looked down from a throne onto her kingdom below. He preferred not to have her eyes watching him while he conducted his business.
Philip wondered if she would be proud of what he had done with Oxley Court—the way he was managing everything. He had been working tirelessly at it since his father’s death six years ago. He thought she at least would be pleased with his selection of Miss Devenish for a wife. But perhaps he was wrong. He never had been able to accurately judge what would please her.
He had few memories of his mother, but they were all wrapped up in the same feeling: the wish for her approval and the uncertainty of obtaining it. He could still remember picking a bouquet for her, setting each bloom in a neat pile on the grass as he had taken turns selecting the most exemplary flowers. He had been so certain she would be pleased. She loved flowers, and she had been thrilled with the last bouquet he had brought her. He didn’t remember what she said when he handed her the offering, only the way she had barely glanced at it, ordering one of the servants to take it away and ensure Philip had a bath. He could still remember how confused he had felt at her reaction.
There was a knock on the door, and Philip shook out of his daze, inviting the servant inside. A footman came in with a silver salver, on top of which sat two notes, apparently sent by the penny post. “These arrived with the morning post.”
“Thank you, Stephen.” Philip took the letters in hand, and the footman bowed and left.
He watched the servant’s departure with a slight frown. He had found that his servants responded best to him when his expectations were high and his approval expressed readily. He doubted his mother had been one for praising the servants. Miss Devenish at least would manage the household capably and kindly.
He opened the first piece of correspondence—a simple invitation to an al fresco party to be held in a week. Miss Devenish would be there, he imagined.
The thought of her made him feel slightly warm about the gills. He had made a complete fool of himself the other night. Seeking the counsel of the Swan was sounding a bit less ridiculous now.
He glanced down at the unopened letter in his hand and recognized the stamp on the back as Finmore’s. He sighed as he broke the seal.
Ox,
If you’re feeling a bit humbler today:
The Swan
Office of The Marsbrooke Weekly
High Street
Marsbrooke
Your servant,
Fin
Philip stared at the address for a full minute, his mind working, his pride rearing its head, even while his sense of duty swatted it back down. Little though he liked to admit it, he needed help. It was a humiliating realization. Someone in his shoes shouldn’t need assistance making a match. And Finmore was right—he could have paid a visit to any number of fathers in Town and received nothing but resounding “yeses” to an offer of marriage.
But he didn’t want them. It was Miss Devenish he wanted—he wanted her gentleness as much as he needed everything else she possessed.
When Philip understood what was expected of him, he found it quite easy to meet those expectations. He merely needed to find out what it was Miss Devenish wished for in a husband. And for that, he required help. What if this Swan fellow was just what he required? No one—not even Finmore—need ever know Philip had employed his services. He could pay for discretion. Just one meeting to help him get ahead of the other suitors. That was all it would take.
With a determined breath and a setting of the jaw, he put down the letter and pulled a sheet of foolscap toward him.
Chapter Three
Ruth Hawthorn’s forehead wrinkled in concentration as she summed the numbers in the neat column on the paper before her. She squinted harder to block out the sound of little feet clomping and creaking on the wooden floor outside the room she shared with her sisters. She didn’t even look up as she dipped the quill, wiped the excess on the edge of the ink pot, and brought it back to the paper before her, scratching the sum at the bottom of the column.
She sat back with a sinking heart. “It seems impossible, but I am quite sure it is correct.” She looked up at the maid beside her, who leaned over, frowning at the paper as well. Ellen had been with the family when they had entertained every family in the neighborhood—and now, when they could barely feed themselves. She was one of just two servants they had been able to keep on since the death of Ruth’s father just over a year ago. If things continued as they were, they might be obliged to let Ellen and Lucy go, too.
Ellen stood straight, setting her hands on her wide hips and jutting out her lips in a determined gesture. “I shan’t buy any meat for this week, miss. That will save a good amount, though I know how Master Christopher loves his mutton.”
Ruth hurriedly checked the numbers again, but it was no use. The sum was correct.
She set the quill back in its stand. They had hardly any money left and still far too much time until more would come at quarter day—the small amount from the jointure Ruth’s mother received. Thank heaven her father hadn’t managed to lose that too. Ruth knew too well how much he had regretted his well-intended investment scheme to feel any anger toward him. She could manage a life of poverty better if he were still here.
Ruth’s stomach writhed with guilt as she stared at the drying number on the paper. She wasn’t accustomed to managing finances, and certainly not in the way they were now obliged to do, stretching every last farthing. She rubbed her forehead harshly, staring at the paper, as if she could will the numbers to change by looking at them.
Ellen put a soft
hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “Let me go see what we still have in the kitchen, miss. Perhaps we can make do for the rest of this week without buying the usual things.”
Ruth nodded absently. As Ellen opened the door to leave, the volume of children’s voices heightened, only to fall again as the door shut with a loud creak.
But it hadn’t even been a full minute when the door opened again and the chaos of running children erupted in the room. Ruth continued to stare at the paper before her, hardly flinching when two children bumped up against her, one wrapping her arms around her leg, the other tugging on her arm as their urgent voices complained in disharmony. She tried to focus, but the voices became louder, pressing in on her thoughts.
“Stop!” Ruth cried, sliding the chair back and rising so that both children were obliged to unhand her. She put a finger to her temple and shut her eyes, forcing herself to draw in a deep breath. She looked down at her five-year-old sister Joanna, who looked stricken at Ruth’s outburst, tears beginning to fill her sweet eyes. George’s chin was trembling, his lower lip sticking out in a way that made her forget for a moment that he was three years old—his crying face had wrung her heart ever since he was an infant, and now more than ever, as he tried in vain to control it.
She sat back down, heart aching fiercely, and put out her arms. “Come, my loves. I am sorry for yelling.” Both George and Joanna walked into her arms, and she pulled them to her tightly, planting a kiss on both heads. She loved all of her siblings dearly, but these two had come to depend upon her since their father’s death in a way that had earned them a particularly warm corner of her heart. “Will you forgive me?”
George sniffed, but the corner of his mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile—one that still struggled against his quivering chin. “’Course,” he said. Joanna nodded with a smile more sure than her brother’s.
“I’m hungry, Ruthie.” George cast his large eyes up at her pitifully. The water from his unspilt tears still hovered precariously in the wells of his wide brown eyes.
“Come, Georgie,” Joanna said, tugging on his arm. “You know we have to wait till dinner.”
Ruth swallowed down the emotion in her throat at the thought of George’s hunger. “What do you say we make some banana muffins? I saw an overripe one in the corner by the pots.”
Both George and Joanna’s mouths split into smiles, and they nodded vigorously.
“Go tell your brothers and sisters,” Ruth said. “I only need five more minutes, and I shall come help.”
The two children skipped out of the room, Joanna holding onto George’s hand.
Ruth let out a breath as the two of them disappeared, her smile fading with their voices. She would have to tell her mother of their circumstances, but she dreaded it. Her mother wasn’t meant for such a hand-to-mouth existence as they were now leading. None of them were, in truth. But her mother had married a gentleman and, as much as she tried to accept their new situation with equanimity, it was obvious that she was unhappy. It was no wonder. Losing a husband and a fortune in one blow was more than anyone should have to bear.
Ruth stood from her chair and looked around the room for her apron. She was still wearing it. Of course. Where was her mind going?
She brushed impatiently at the hairs escaping the simple, loose knot in her long hair—she had never been good at doing it herself, and she hadn’t the time to devote to it now anyway—and put a smile on her face to go make banana muffins with the children.
The windows that let onto the street were open, bringing in the sounds of the bustling town of Marsbrooke, and releasing both the warmth from the stove and the scent of fresh banana muffins. Ruth’s younger siblings—all but Topher, though he would take issue with the word younger—munched contentedly on the treats, while her mother was lying down for a rest upstairs in the relative quiet that reigned when all her children’s mouths were at work. She was always so tired nowadays, as if when they had lost the money, she had lost her energy along with it.
Ruth and Ellen declined to take muffins for themselves. Ruth’s stomach grumbled, but she could wait to eat until dinner.
The door opened, and Ruth’s twin brother Topher walked in, his soft golden curls ruffling slightly with the breeze that blew in with him. For siblings who had shared so much of their existence, the two of them shared little in common by appearance.
Topher shut his eyes, breathing in the smell in the kitchen. “I thought I smelled your banana muffins from halfway down the street, Ellen.” He strode over to the basket, unfurling a pair of spectacles, which he set on his nose before taking the last muffin in hand. He bit into it with a sigh of pleasure.
“You’ve got glasses!” eight-year-old Sarah cried, stating the obvious.
Topher tipped the glasses down his nose to stare at her through them teasingly. Ruth snatched them off his nose, inspecting them. Her first impulse was to chastise him for such a purchase, but she knew his eyes had been bothering him for some time now when he read, and she didn’t want to discuss it in front of the children.
“And where have you been?” Ruth asked, handing the glasses back to him. Joanna reached for them, though, and set them on her face with delighted giggles.
Topher wagged his eyebrows at Ruth, swallowing down a mouthful of muffin. Topher was always energetic and good-humored, but he seemed to be in an especially happy mood today. He reached into his neat blue coat—conspicuously out of place in their humble kitchen—and pulled out a small bag of jingling coins, dropping it onto the wooden table, which sat unevenly on the floor below. “My best go of it yet!”
Ruth’s eyes widened, and she plucked the bag from the table, yanking her brother’s arm and pulling him into the small parlor that led off the kitchen. She shut the door behind them. “You can’t be serious, Topher,” she hissed. “Is that smuggling money?”
He nodded, wiping at the crumbs around his mouth. Smuggling was Topher’s way of putting off the unpalatable task of choosing what occupation to pursue. She couldn’t blame him too much. All his life, he had believed he would be inheriting Dunburn.
“You know we need it,” he said.
“Yes, but the last thing I want is for Charlie to get wind of it. You know how he idolizes you, and who knows what mischief he would get up to if he found out. He thinks himself fair grown, for all he’s only thirteen.”
Topher seemed to sober at that. “You’re right. I shan’t speak of it in front of him again. We will simply tell him it’s money from the Swan.”
Ruth sighed. “That’s hardly better.” She thumbed the coins through the rough burlap. “And we certainly don’t make this much from the Swan.”
“Ah,” Topher said, reaching into his coat. “Speaking of which, we have some post.”
Ruth’s lips drew into a thin line at the sight of his waistcoat. “Is that new?”
He pulled out three letters and glanced down at his waistcoat, a bright blue satin with embroidered green clocks. “I thought my success worth a little splurge.” There was a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
“Well, it is hideous.” She tugged the letters from his hand and brushed her flour-speckled hair away from her face. “You cannot continue to dress as though we still lived at Dunburn, Topher. We barely have enough to eat, let alone to waste on foppishness.” She tried to soften her words with a teasing glance as she broke the seal on one of the letters.
“Allow me.” He straightened his spectacles and took the letter back, walking over to the light of the window. “He thanks the Swan for his”—Topher sent her a smirk—“helpful advice on the topic of gaining an introduction to a woman and begs us to address in the following column how a man might go about wooing a woman whose heart is already given to another.” He grimaced at Ruth.
She folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “Apparently he is not a careful reader of the column, or he would already know our answer to such a question. We are not in the business of stealing hearts—only—”
“—cultiva
ting love in hearts that are unattached. Yes, I know,” he said impatiently, taking the other two letters from her. He opened the second one. “This fellow wishes to express his profound thanks, feeling that he owes a great part of his success to the Swan, having lately become betrothed to a lady who will go unnamed out of respect to her privacy. Signed, J. McQ.”
Ruth smiled. “I love those ones.”
Topher narrowed his eyes at the last one, rubbing a finger along the crimson wax seal on the back. “Very fine indeed.”
Ruth walked over and peered over her brother’s shoulder. The seal was an ornate crest with a large O in the middle. Topher glanced up at her in annoyance. “A man’s sister shouldn’t be able to see so easily over his shoulder.”
“Even an older sister?”
He scoffed and tore open the letter. “Older by all of five minutes.”
“An inch for every minute,” she teased.
He sent her an annoyed glance. “You are not five inches taller.”
She smiled and stepped away so she could listen as he read the letter, chewing absently on the tip of her thumbnail.
His eyebrows knit together, and he held the letter up, staring at Ruth. “He wants an in-person consultation.”
Ruth stared back. “What?” She took the letter from him and ran her eyes over the masculine but neat script. Her eyes widened. “Twenty pounds? He’s offering twenty pounds for an hour?”
Topher’s shoulders lifted, and his lip quirked at the side. “Can’t put a price on love, can you?” He watched her, and she returned her eyes to the letter. “We shall accept the request, of course,” he said.
Ruth looked up. “Of course? Of course not.”
“What? Why not? Twenty pounds, Ruth! We need it. And it’s only an hour.”
Ruth stared at her brother incredulously. “Yes. In person! No doubt it has escaped your notice, but I am not a man, and I think that should become very apparent over the course of an entire hour.”